


Hellcat

by rei_c



Category: Original Work
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, Breathplay, F/M, Female Character In Command, Light BDSM, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Rough Sex, Scratching, Secret Relationship, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:06:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One long-overdue conversation leads to one long-overdue night together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hellcat

He smells of cigarette smoke when you walk into his office and though his teeth aren't stained, you imagine you can see the imprint of paper on his lips, a few flakes of ash on his chin. 

The smell is the first thing you notice, always, and the second thing is the curve of his lips. You know what every infinitesimal angle of his lips means, whether the amusement is born out of frustration or resignation, if the curl speaks of tamped-down happiness or bitten-back disgust. You look at his lips because of the smell, to see if there's a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, and when you've checked, when you've catalogued his mood, you look at his eyes. 

Nothing special, in the grand scheme of things, those eyes, but they're his and you know him, so looking into his eyes is like coming home. It's like falling into a warm bath when he's happy, satisfied with himself, and like standing outside in a blizzard, lost and dying of cold, when he's angry. Sometimes you wonder if everyone can read him the way you can. Sometimes you hope that he isn't so open to everyone the way he is to you, even though the up-front honesty is one of his most attractive features. 

Lately, the parabola of his mouth and the look in his eyes has puzzled you. They're contemplative, a little, but more than that, they look as though they long for something that even he doesn't know he needs -- and it is a need, not a want, judging by the desperate gleam you sometimes see when the light hits his face the right way. 

The light in his office, today, right now, as you walk in and inhale the remnants of smoke that cling to him, highlights the need written in his eyes, the yearning at the edges of his lips, and when he sees you and smiles, the quirk of his mouth isn't enough to wipe any of it away. 

You're not enough. 

At least, you're not enough like this. 

_What's up?_ he asks. 

His feet are up on the desk, heavy boots on with clumps of mud clinging to the soles. You can't help but think that it says something about him, about you, about the entire group of you, that you all like to play in the dirt, like to see things rise from the ground, like to take the world and change it to something of your own making. You think it says something about you all that you live surrounded by dust; ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and even this, too, all of these buildings and edifices and money spent on concrete and steel, will crumble into nothing when the universe dies. 

But that won't be for a long time. 

You take him in, the mussed-up hair, the wind-burned cheeks, the glittering gleam of the crinkles 'round his eyes and mouth, and close the door behind you. It's after hours. You've done this before, come into his office like this, closed the door, either dropped to your knees or been bent over his desk in seconds, but this time you sit, look at him, tilt your head. 

The smile fades from his lips and the sparkle from his irises. The feet stay on the desk but something in him re-orients, turns to you even if he doesn't move. He's focused on you; the intensity of his focus has always been heady but this is more, much more, with your nerves and his sudden wariness. 

_What's going on?_ he asks. There's a dip in his forehead now. You've put it there. 

_I want to talk to you about something,_ you say, _and I want you to listen until I'm done. Okay?_

His expression changes. _You're going to end this?_ he asks, and he's incredulous. _Look, I know it's not -- that we haven't made it official or anything, but I thought you were._

 _I don't want to end it,_ you say, cutting him off. A glimmer of relief flashes across his face, so quick that you wouldn't have noticed it if every part of you wasn't as attuned to him as he is to you. His relief triggers the same in you; you aren't the only one invested in this now, too far to turn back, not if that expression was real -- and it was. He can't lie to you. He's never been able to lie to you and you're counting on that now. _But I want to ask you something and I don't want you to just blow me off. Promise me you'll hear me out._

You're not sure what he's thinking when he nods, slowly, and lets his feet drop from the desk, land on the tiled floor of the trailer with an audible thump. You've made sure no one else is around and it's late, but there's always a little fear that someone might creep up outside and listen in, might hear the two of you. 

Generally the fear adds to the spice of what you do, because it makes every experience more intense when you have to be quiet and not attract attention when what you'd really love to do is bite into the meat of his shoulder and scream around his flesh when he fucks you, or curse in every language you know when he eats you out, but you want to hear the sounds he made the first time you blew him, out of the office, again and again and again. You want him to be able to moan your name. You want to be able to beg him with more than just a gasp and the press of your nails into his hips for him to fuck you harder, faster. 

Sometimes, you even want to tell everyone what the two of you have become to each other, even if you have no label for it. You think about what it would be like to show up together and leave together, to go out to lunch together, to kiss him when he's having a bad day or bring him ice cream when it's hot, to cook for each other and be able to touch one another openly, a brush of the shoulders, a flicker of fingers passing in the hallway, his chin on your shoulder and his hands around your hips. 

You're into this, into him, with everything inside of you. If it ends, eventually, as all things do, you will at least have had this. 

_I'm not leaving,_ you tell him. _I don't want to._ But you can't tell him you love him and you doubt he'll ever say it. He doesn't need to. You can read it in every press of his skin against yours. There are times when you yearn to ask what he reads from your skin and the way it gives so easily under his touch. _I want you. I want this. So don't think it's that. Unless -- you._

 _No,_ he says, at a speed that makes you go soft and warm. 

You smile at him, he smiles back, and the rising need for him is almost enough to drown out the reason you're here, now, like this and not already wet, with him inside you. 

_I've noticed something recently,_ you say. There's no easy way to begin this, to admit that you aren't enough for him, but you'll do it for him. You'll lay yourself bare and pray he does the same. _Something -- you're not completely happy, are you._

He argues but you say, _Please,_ and he subsides, leaning forward, upset at the implication. How you wish that he knew himself as well as you know him. 

_You need more than what we have,_ you say, and you think maybe your tone of voice is enough to convince him you're not angry with him. _More than what we've been doing. I think I know what it is. I've seen it before, in other people. And if that's what you need, that's what we'll do. Maybe not all the time, but sometimes. Let me do this for you. Let me be this for you._ You feel empty, without words now, and you say, quietly, _I just want you to be happy._

 _I am happy,_ he says. The fierceness of the statement sends a slow, warm burn circling through you. _I don't know what the hell you think you've seen, but._

He stops when you move, shoulders tense and tight as you go around to the back of his chair. He leans after you ask and he hums when you start working out the knots in his neck. You do this for long enough that your fingers ache and your back is tight, but he's loose, easy, and so you circle your neck with your hands and press the nails of your middle fingers into his windpipe. 

He goes so limp, so fast, that it scares you. You release the pressure, worried, but he says, _Don't stop._

The words are so quiet that they make you jump. You do as he asks, though, and he turns boneless as you squeeze, not enough to take his breath completely but enough to make him work for every inhale and exhale. 

His flesh is so giving. 

There will be bruises on him tomorrow in the shape of your fingerprints, little crescent-moon scabs where your nails are digging in. The thrill of knowing he'll be wearing your marks runs down your spine, explodes out through your veins. 

Maybe this is something you needed as well. 

_Come over tonight,_ he says. _We can -- not here, but at home._

 _Come to mine,_ you counter-offer. _I'll make dinner. Plus it's supposed to rain tonight; I don't want to drive home in that._

A long pause, then he says, _You could stay._

You've never done that before, either of you. He's been to yours a few times for dinner and sex, you've been to his about the same number of times, but neither of you have ever stayed the night. It implies something that you hadn't realised he was ready for, much less that you were, but the thought of curling up into him, sleeping with your nose pressed against his skin, feeling the rough calluses of his fingertips on your belly the entire night and waking up with him right there, it makes you flush. 

_Come to mine,_ you say again. _I'll make dinner. And breakfast._

He holds your gaze for a long moment, then grins. _How 'bout I pick up dinner on my way over and you make breakfast?_

 _I want steak,_ you tell him with a grin, impossible to resist the need to return his smile, like his happiness is a sun breaking over your skin and giving you warmth at the same time it pulls joy from where it had been buried deep under the soil of your fatigue and long day. _And potatoes. Don't show up without meat._

 _Oh, I'll show up with meat,_ he says, and wags his eyebrows. 

You groan and, still hopelessly smiling, leave his office to the sound of him whistling.

*** *** ***

You tidy up, change into a skirt, shut your cat off into his room with more than enough food and water to last the night.

When he gets to your house, after you take the restaurant bag from his hand and drop it carelessly on the floor behind you, you push him against the door, press against him and take his mouth, no room for him to argue. When you've had enough -- for now, because you could kiss him forever -- you pull back, his lower lip caught between your teeth. 

You meet each other's eyes and he watches you as you bite just that little bit harder, enough to have two or three beads of blood welling up on his lip. He doesn't protest, doesn't even frown, so you let go and lean in to lick the blood from him. He shivers; you can feel it as he slides his hands around your waist. 

_Hey,_ he tells you, pressing his forehead against yours. His breath smells like nicotine; a smell you've come to associate purely with him, with his face and hands and mouth and eyes. _You that excited about steak?_

You pull back, smile and punch him lightly on the arm. _Come on,_ you say, as you pick up the take-out bag. _I've got everything ready._

Plates at the table, with silverware, a bottle of his favourite beer and one of your favourite cider, a handful of strawberries and slices of pineapple in a bowl between the plates. There's music going, too, something bluesy, electric guitar covering something old. He smiles when he hears it but doesn't say anything, just cracks open his beer and sits down, lets you dish things up from the styrofoam onto real plates. 

When you sit down across from him, tangle your feet up in his, you look over at him and can't help the look that crosses your face, happiness and satisfaction and eager anticipation. It's not always like this between you -- keeping what you are a secret has taken its toll on both of you in different ways -- but moments like this are why this whole thing has been worth it.

*** *** ***

When dinner is done and the dishwasher is running, you make your way to the bedroom. He follows you, his hand in yours, and as you get to the threshold, you turn to him and say, _If you don't want to do this, we don't have to._

 _Oh,_ he says, _we're doing this. I -- I couldn't stop thinking about it,_ and he runs his fingers over his neck, where you'd dug your thumbs into his skin earlier, where you'd left bruises on his delicate flesh. 

Delicate. It's not a word most people would associate with him. There is something about him, though, something you've always seen, beneath the bluster and the cursing and the too-loud laughter, that speaks to this delicacy, like he's fine bone-china and the decoration is a distraction from the fragility underneath. He's letting you see the soft underbelly of him, rolling over for you in his own way, and it hits with the force of a freight train that you love him -- for this, for everything. 

You love him. 

_You need a safeword,_ you say. 

He smiles, then laughs, and the sound makes you grin up at him, hopeless and helpless. _No safewords,_ he says. _You know me too well for that._ The smile fades and he's serious as he adds, _I trust you._

No one has ever said those words with this force behind them, not to you, not ever in the history of the world, you think. It's almost enough to have you second doubting this, yourself, but you feel your heart stutter-start out of rhythm. You breathe through it and pull him inside. 

_Shirt off,_ you say, and lift the hem of his polo as he thinks about making a comment -- you can read it in his eyes -- but decides against it. He pulls the shirt off and drops it to one side; you run your eyes over him and, a moment later, your hands. He's warm, like always; the planes of his skin heating you as you run your palms down his chest. He's tan, no wonder from all the time he spends outside, with a little pudge around the belly that you've been encouraging; he doesn't eat enough and he loses weight when he's stressed, going for the cigarettes rather than the candy and protein you've scattered over and in his desk. 

You kiss again, press yourself against him, feel the heat of him sink in past your clothes. His fingers play at the bottom of your shirt but you slide back before he touches your flesh. _On your knees,_ you tell him, and he goes slowly, settles there and looks up at you. You know what he's thinking, that you're going to tell him to put his clever mouth to good use, but you don't. Instead, you circle around him, stand behind him, and say, _Hands on your head and close your eyes._

He glances at you over his shoulder; for a moment, you think he's going to argue. You hold his eyes, meet his gaze, and he finally nods, takes a deep breath and looks in front again. His arms go up to his head, fingers sliding through his hair and settling in. He looks -- he makes such a pretty picture. 

You get down on your knees, behind him, and draw your teeth down the nape of his neck. He shudders under the bite, shudders again when you lean forward to whisper in his ear. _Do you want a blindfold?_

 _No,_ he says. _I think -- no. That would be too easy._

 _We don't have to start out hard,_ you say, and when he snickers, you smack him, lightly, on his shoulder. _Idiot. You know what I mean._

He nods but doesn't say anything. You wonder why -- if this is a restriction he placed on himself, if he thinks that's what you want, if he just doesn't have the words -- but don't ask. Instead of speaking, respecting the quiet sanctuary that he's made your bedroom, you wrap your arms around him, let your hands stroke the planes of his chest and stomach while you press your cheek to his neck and inhale the tobacco-sweat smell of him. You draw your nails across his pecs and nipples, tangle your fingers in the hair leading down from his navel, let your hands dance across the button of his jeans. 

You could do this forever, you think, but you realise that he is trembling, that his fingers have clenched his hair and are pulling tight. He's doing so well, kneeling there, not moving, but pain is no good, especially self-inflicted like this, so you lean back, unthread your arms from him, slide your hands over the backs of his. 

_Don't pull,_ you tell him. _There's no need for that. Calm down, now; it's just me. It's okay. It's me._

You coax him into letting go of his own hair, into placing his hands ever-so-lightly on the top of his head, and when the shaking in his arms has died down, you glide your fingertips over his forearms, around his elbows, down to his shoulders. 

_We don't have to do this_ , you say. _If it's too much, or if you've changed your mind. We can stop._

_No,_ he says, instantly. _I -- I want to. I trust you. Whatever you want._

You draw your hand down his spine, stroking the knobs of his vertebrae, letting the barest hint of nails scratch his skin. You've left marks on this skin before, everything from deep tracks of blood to thin raised white lines, and you've wanted to ask if he's worn those marks with pride, the way you wear the bruise marks on your hips and the bites on your breasts and inner thighs. You lean in, rub your nose in the space behind his ear, and whisper, _Thank you_ , because his trust, the kind of trust he's giving you, the way he's putting himself in your hands, is humbling. 

He lets out a breath, a long and deep breath, and tilts his head forward so that his chin rests on his chest. With his hands on his head, knees spread, the pose is one of complete submission -- more complete than any you've seen before because it's voluntary, done without restraints, and so willing, so self-assured, that it makes something inside of you burst into pieces with adoration.

You snake your arms back around his waist and rest there, your chest pressed to his back, and match your breathing to his, force him through example to inhale and exhale in a steady rhythm. Your eyes are closed, face turned into the curve of his neck, and when he's calm, when his heart beat is steady, you unbutton his jeans. 

_Jesus,_ he says, lurching in surprise when you pop the button; he must've been lulled into something approaching subspace as you held him as tightly to you as you could. 

If he were anyone else, you'd ask if he was okay, if this was okay, but it's him and it's you and it's the pair of you, together, so you pull the zipper down at an agonisingly slow pace, one tooth at a time, and set your teeth into his shoulder. 

You can feel his heart pounding, can tell that the pattern of his breathing has changed, but the bite goes a long way to settling him, enough that you can hear the tentative smile in his voice as he says, _This would be easier if I took off my jeans._

 _Never said this was going to be easy,_ you reply, once you've taken your teeth out of his shoulder and licked the sting away. _Besides, I thought I was the one driving tonight?_

 _I guess I'm just along for the ride,_ he says, and you lift one of your hands, trace a fingertip over the curve of the smile on his lips. He's proud of himself and you like that; it's a much better look on him than the trembling thing he turned into earlier. Submission has always been something worthy of pride, at least in your eyes, all the more so because it is so against your own personality that you can't help but respect those who own theirs. By the time you two are done -- tonight, this week, finally and forever -- he will own his and you will be so very, very proud. 

You pull his jeans down his hips, just a little, and reach your hand inside his underwear, tease your nails along the curve of his dick. It shuts him up, steals the smile from his face, and you're struck with the need to see him, to look at him, to meet his eyes and take from him what you want, take everything that he'll give and then some. 

Fast, no wasted movement, you move, crawl to kneel in front of him. He looks at you, lifts an eyebrow, but instead of saying anything, you push at him lightly. Without saying anything, he goes with it, falling onto his back, stretched out on the floor, the lines of his hips visible along with the pounding of his pulse in his throat. 

You pull his jeans and underwear down -- not off, all the way, but to his knees, constricting his movement -- and then jerk him twice before rolling a condom onto his dick. He's watching you do this, gleam in his eyes, and his pupils dilate, making his eyes look black in the light, when you hitch your skirt up to your hips and straddle him. 

_You're going to lay there,_ you tell him, _and you're not going to move. Understood?_

 _Yeah,_ he says, and he sounds wrecked. Every muscle in his body is tense, coiled and ready to respond to what you're getting ready to do. 

You lean forward, wet slit sliding on his leg, and kiss him, soft and gentle, sucking his tongue into your mouth and biting the tip of it delicately, just enough for his eyes to fix on yours.

*** *** ***

You ride him, then. You draw your nails down his chest and then stick them into the skin stretched across his collarbones, fucking yourself on him. He feels so good inside of you, like he was made for you, and it's hard for him to lie there and let you take what you want but it's difficult for you as well. You want his hands on your hips, keeping you steady so you can lean backwards and let his dick hit the spot inside of you that makes your thighs shake and your voice howl. You both like it when you're on top: he likes to watch your tits bounce, likes to feel the ends of your hair brushing on his legs, and you like for him to hold you, latch his mouth onto your nipples while you feel the muscles in his thighs tense and relax in turns as he thrusts into you.

He can see some of this on your face, read the signs that mean this is as much of a challenge for you as it is for him, just in different ways, and something around his mouth loosens as he just -- gives up. He's hit subspace and seeing the abandon on his face makes you come, sends you spiralling through an orgasm that has you panting out his name, telling him that he's so good, that he's perfect. With your muscles still fluttering around him, you tell him, _Come_ , and he does, immediately. 

In that moment, you feel like you could take over the world and he would be at your right hand the entire time. It's a heady feeling, one you never knew you craved, and your thought from earlier flitters back through your mind, that this is something both of you needed and even if you don't do it like this that often, you know it will work and that you can when you need to, either of you. 

You wait until he goes soft inside you then get off him, take off the condom and tie it up, throw it away. He's lying on the floor with a lazy smile on his face, the smile of large cats in the desert shade after a full meal, and you can't help but grin at his expression, proud of him, proud of yourself. 

_Hips up,_ you tell him, and he obeys but it takes a second for his languid body to move. You pull off the rest of his clothes, then take your own off, and he watches you but he doesn't move. _Come on,_ you say, then. _Bed._

It takes a while for him to respond; when he does, he collapses onto your mattress with a sigh and curls into the pillows and blankets. You leave, just long enough to get him a glass of water and some aspirin, to clean yourself off and wet down a cloth for him, and when you go back into the bedroom, his eyes are closed. 

_That was amazing,_ he says, voice rough, catching on the consonants. You make him take the aspirin, make him drink the whole glass of water, then wipe off his face and some of the marks you left on his chest. _We get to do that again sometime, right?_

 _Definitely,_ you promise, and then you slide into bed as well, hold him tight and let him hold you, and the pair of you fall asleep cradled together, heaps of blankets covering you from the world.

*** *** ***

He wakes you up in the morning by eating you out; you fix him eggs and toast and bacon while he's in the shower and after he's done eating, you drop to your knees in the dining room and return the favour. He kisses you before he leaves, licks his own taste out of your mouth and grins when you pout as he opens the door.

 _See you there,_ he says, and then leans in again, presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth and murmurs, _Thanks,_ before he leaves. 

You watch him drive out of the parking lot with a smile on your face and two fingers pressed against the edge of your lips.

*** *** ***

He's in the kitchen with a few others when you finally make it in, an hour later. You have a teabag in one hand and a mug in the other and you eavesdrop, keeping one eye on him as others press him about his night.

 _Roommate said you never came home last night,_ one of them says. 

Someone else adds in, _Got a few bruises there._

He smiles and you turn, watch, stirring sugar into your tea as a third person asks, eyebrow raised, _She a hellcat? Gotta be someone with claws for those scratches._

 _Something like that,_ he says, and as you walk past him, trying to bite back a smile, he reaches out, brushes his fingers against your wrist. 

Your heart skips a beat. You want to put your mug down, want to curl into him right here and now, in front of everyone, want him to lay claim to you so that you can lay claim to him, command ownership of his body and all the marks scattered over it. 

You want to but you don't, just let out a quiet little hum and keep moving to your office.


End file.
